


Sleeping in Eden

by blaetter



Series: Christian Names [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Platonic Bed-sharing, pining holmes, soft Holmes, soft Watson, then not so platonic bed-sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaetter/pseuds/blaetter
Summary: Yet again H & W have to share a bed out of town. This time it ends differently. A sequel to 'Dreams that won't let go' but can be read separately with little confusion.





	Sleeping in Eden

Aforementioned case took us a bit into the country, and the late hour of my solving the case forced us into an inn for the night. As always is the case, there was one bed left, for a high price, and Watson took it with a stern look on his face, forbidding me to mention to the innkeeper the absurdity of its cost. One bed. How often had Watson and I shared one bed for a case? Often enough, and regularly enough that neither of us were as uncomfortable with it as we were that first night (when I had lain awake, cataloguing everything I could of my companion, his nocturnal breathing habits being the most interesting in the episode). I stayed silent, by Watson's side, as we found the room to be less than preferable, and watched Watson's tired features slump into obligatory acceptance. A bed was a bed, I almost heard him say in my mind. I turned my back to him as he undressed and undressed myself as well. 

When we were down to our undergarments only, I, still with my back turned, heard Watson climb into the lumpy bed with an exaggerated sigh of discomfort and exhaustion, and I lit a cigarette. It was too early for me to even feign sleep. I let Watson toss and turn for a few minutes before he found the position that would suit him best.

"Good night, Holmes," he muttered to my back. It was sleep-addled already; I smiled at my lit cigarette and returned the sentiment. Within ten minutes, he was snoring slightly, and I silently finished cataloguing the end of a fruitful case.

 

Some hours later, after putting off sleep as much as I could (so that it would hopefully, mercifully, be dreamless), I retired myself to bed next to my Watson, having ruthlessly turned my mind off to such an act: joining my beloved in bed, be the love unrequited or not. I turned my back to him, so that we were facing the same way, an arm's length between us, and let the sorrowful comfort seep into my bones and lull me to sleep. 

I awoke again at dawn from a dream. This one was wholly chaste; Watson and I were sat in our respective places in our sitting room and had not yet met in the middle for an embrace. Still, it was intimate enough for my heart to thud indelicately in my chest, the yearning ache ever present. Behind me, there was some rustling, and I remembered then that Watson and I were sharing a bed. Watson had moved closer in the night, had snuffled his face in between my shoulder blades, his knees curled into the backs of mine, and was still snoring soundly. He hardly ever slept this late, but then again, the case had been a rather exhausting one. 

I let myself rest backwards into him, for he was asleep, and I felt I could have this much, as long as I never asked for more. His arm came around me a moment later to rest across my hip, not far from my stirring prick, but innocent enough to remain brotherly, as he could argue if he realised it when he woke. But he seemed asleep still as he pulled me against him and hummed. I gave myself to him, and he did not wake up, and I fell asleep some more, entering into the same dream. I was not sure I trusted my mind to awake me before it became inappropriate, but I slept anyway, and it turned out my doubts were founded.

I woke up not two hours later, dragged out of slumber by a dream which had betrayed me. Watson had pulled me to his bed and embraced me there, deliciously close, utterly bare, in the same position to which I awoke. I was not alone in bed; Watson was, upon my silent and utterly immobile investigation, awake as well, and tense at that. His arm was still draped around me. 

What to do? 

I halted utterly, not making any decision, whether to move (away, closer) or not. I let Watson lead this time, as tense as he was, and I wanted to give him the opportunity to jump from the bed and curse me a fool, a sodomite, an invert, and leave my life forever. The thought was nearly preposterous to imagine, but all logic led me to it, for I knew Watson an upright, upstanding citizen of the Queen's country, even if he did follow me into crime and other criminal activities. He did not have such an outburst, however. After several tense minutes, Watson cleared his throat and spoke, more timid than I have ever heard him.

"Holmes?"

I nodded, my face burning, doubtless spreading to the back of my neck, where he could see me redden. Should I shake my head instead? What was he asking in his voice? Why was he hesitating?

He repeated my name and retracted his arm. It was the end for me; I reached back and returned it, and in my violence of it, pulled him closer as well. His arms wrapped around me, my chest, and he held me close to him, his embrace like a vice, like we were a young couple parted for years and had just been reunited. He squeezed as though he had wanted to do it for years. I let it happen, my arms wrapped around his wrapped around me, and exhaled, and leaned back. My Watson.

"Holmes," he hushed against my ear, and I shivered. This was new, unexpected; was this happening? My god, my mind had gone off me, I have entered the dreamworld. But I hadn't, I definitely hadn't, because Watson whispered my name again, reverence in his voice, as if he were speaking the very word of God or graciousness, and then I felt the whispers of his moustache against my neck, the top of my spine. A noise emerged from me before I could stop it, and I turned in his arms to see if I had indeed gone to bed with Watson, and not another man (as I had done before, in the clandestine years before I met my doctor). Watson was there, looking frightened nearly, his cheeks red as if he had had too much brandy. I blinked at him, trying to deduce anything, a thread of anything to tell me what to do, what was safe. 

In a moment, we met in the middle, just as we had in my dreams. His lips were soft below mine, unbelieving, and I broke it as soon as it happened. Too much sensation. I breathed against his chin, overwhelmed and confused, as he rested his forehead on mine, and his arms were looped across my back. One hand ventured up to hold the back of my neck. I shook. 

"Watson." 

"Yes." His voice was gruff. My hands trembled.

I watched him watch me, finding emotions rail across his face that I never would have expected. I found myself breathing harshly, as if we had just run across our London to chase a criminal. My Watson, holding me in my arms. Not pushing me away, but instead embracing me tightly. 

"Yes," he said again. His other hand stroked up and down my spine, and I melded myself to his front. My head fell to his shoulders, and he gathered me ever closer, only our scant clothes between us, a passionate embrace that warmed me to my core. Yes, an affirmative, a sign that this was right in his world. It certainly was in mine; I had never felt any sensation so perfect and soul-deep. We fit, I thought deliriously, as I turned my head up and gazed at him, checking again that he was there, that this was not an act of mere slumber and a tricking mind. His eyes searched mine -- yes -- this was real, not a dream. Neither of us were sleeping as our lips found each other's, finally, effortlessly. Words would come later; rationality, logic, thoughts would come later. For now, I needed only my Watson against me, the feeling of him delighting in this moment as much as I did, and I did not wonder once what I would do if this were a mere dream. It was the most real I ever felt in all my years, and I was eternally grateful for this small bed which had drawn Watson and me closer, to this point of pure melding. I was thankful, then, for my dreams as well, and even more thankful that this new reality so easily surpassed them. Watson, I could understand in his insistent, searching kisses, was mine now, as I had always been his. I would cherish this reality with everything I had, and knew, then, that my dreams would haunt me no more.


End file.
